I’m unquestionably delighted that I can still turn a young man’s head at my ripe old age of, well, never mind the exact number… However, when a lad, of about eleven-teen, leans close in line at the grocery store and smells my hair, flattered turns to heebie-jeebie both swiftly and wholly.
Yes. You read that correctly. Smelled. My. Hair.
I only nipped in to grab some celery to complete the mirepoix for a roast chicken. For whatever reason the store was exceptionally hectic – like the day before a nor’easter crowded. I waited, ever so (im)patiently, in the misnamed “express” line for what seemed like an eternity.
Unfortunately, in the ten-items-or-less lane you rarely have the personal space buffer of a cart between you and the other shoppers, and the young man behind me was occupying my no-fly zone. Granted my personal space requirements might exceed the average person’s, but still he was too close for comfort.
I shifted. So did he. I stepped forward. So did he. I leaned to the side. So did he. It became a bizarre, unmeasured waltz. Or perhaps a slow motion game of cat and mouse. And that’s when it happened; he leaned uncomfortably close and sniffed my hair. It wasn’t my imagination either, for at that precise moment I happened to catch the cashier’s eye. She was obviously taken aback; the look on her face told the tale for exactly what it was. Creepy.